The Successor
by Stormcrown201
Summary: Meeting Inquisitor Ameridan forces Leas to consider what his place in history will be after he's gone. Dorian, meanwhile, is more worried about the fact that Leas got thrown off two cliffs by a Hakkonite bruiser—and that, as a dreamer, he'll be in screaming agony when he meets the Avvar dragon.


Scarcely an hour after Leas, Bull, Blackwall, and Cole leave the camp to venture deeper into the Basin, Dorian hears a commotion at the entrance. He looks up from his book, a tome about the first Inquisition Kenric had kindly lent to him, to see the four of them returning. In the centre of their tightly knit group, Leas' arm is slung around Blackwall's shoulders. Bull holds him by the waist, and his golden breastplate has been caved in and splattered with blood.

Dorian's eyebrows fly up, and he lays his book aside and rises from his seat. He crosses the distance to them in a few quick steps. "_Fasta vass_, you're back early. What happened?"

Bull grimaces and looks down at Leas, who, despite the deplorable state of his amour, appears to be grinning. "Can somebody get Vivienne?" he calls out. He returns his gaze to Dorian as Blackwall and Cole race off. "We found more Hakkonites on this big promontory east of the camp," he says, glancing back to where the said promontory looms not far off. "One of those bruisers—tough sons of bitches—he started doing that spinning attack, knocking over everything in sight and then some."

Dorian cringes at the mere thought, remembering well what had happened the first time he'd seen a Hakkonite bruiser spin around so much it surprised him they didn't get dizzy. Even with healing potions and magic, his ribs had _ached_. He looks down at Leas, and his brow lifts higher as he hears the man giggling. "And…?"

"And he slammed right into the boss, hit him _square_ in the chest, and _knocked him off two cliffs._"

"… Two?"

"Two. He went flying straight to the ground. _Head_-first. Blackwall was sure for a moment he'd died—if being whacked in the chest with that hammer didn't do it, then falling so far _should_ have. Anyway," Bull continues, while the blood drains from Dorian's face and he stares at Leas, "we finished the bastards off and raced back down. Found him limping back up, clutching his chest and laughing like a madman."

Leas chooses this moment to look up. His eyes are wide and wild, and hysteria is in every line of his face. "Well, what can I say?" he says breathlessly. "I _should_ have died! Even with my barrier and my armour—that blow should have caved my chest in! Never—never mind hitting my head on the ground…" His words slur, and his head drops into his chest after a moment. Dorian hears whimpers mixed with his laughter.

Bull sighs. "Stop laughing, boss. You'll make the ribs worse," he says, while Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Aren't I—uhhh—allowed to be amazed at my astonishing good luck, Bull?" Leas says, his words slurring together all the more. His knees buckle, and Bull bends to catch and steady him.

"_Kaffas._ What's the matter with him?"

"He hit his head pretty badly," Bull says. "And a cowl's no protection against that sort of blow. Pretty sure he's concussed on top of having broken ribs and bruises everywhere."

"In that case, Bull," Vivienne says, approaching them now, "what are you doing leaving him standing? Bring him to a cot."

Bull startles. "Uhh, right, yes, ma'am," he splutters, and at once, he hauls Leas off towards the cots, where lie other injured soldiers. Dorian follows, shaking his head, caught somewhere between stunned incredulity, relief that the man survived the fall, a pressing need to wipe the Hakkonites off the face of Thedas, and irrational anger. A fall off two cliffs… such a thing _would_ happen to Leas, wouldn't it? But for the Maker's sake, the man had _promised_…

_It's not a matter of breaking a promise,_ he reminds himself as Bull settles Leas on the cot. _This was nothing more than his terrible luck. Again._ Leas is verging on semiconsciousness and has mostly lost his motor skills, so Dorian peels the complicated, form-fitting mix of chain and plate that is his armour off him while Vivienne prepares her potions. His breath catches at the sight of Leas' chest, mottled with a panoply of bruises, some black, some yellow, some brown, some purple, some even faintly green. The darkest and worst are right above his ribs. A shiver runs down his spine as he realises that if that blow had been any further to Leas' left, it would have crushed his heart.

"_Venhedis,_" he mutters to himself, burying his face in his hands for a moment. Then he looks up at Vivienne, watches as she finishes her potions and examines Leas. Once she has finished, he asks, "Is there something I can do?"

Vivienne glances at him. In the background, Bull walks off, muttering something about needing to clean his greataxe. "Help him drink the potions. I suspect his concussion is severe enough he won't be able to manage on his own."

Marvellous. Dorian nods and gets into position at once, putting his hand under Leas' neck and holding him up. Leas' eyes—one pupil blown larger than the other—wander, focusing on nothing, and his head lolls until Dorian shifts closer and rests it in the crook of his elbow. At that, Leas smiles to himself and makes an attempt at nuzzling. It might look cute if not for the bruises and Dorian's exasperation. "_Fasta vass, amatus,_ focus!" he mutters, though he knows the words are in vain.

At that moment, Vivienne takes the first healing potion and brings it to Leas' lips. Unbidden, not needing to be told, Dorian lifts Leas' head slightly, enough that the potion will go down his throat without him choking. Though he is still out of it, Leas' mouth opens around the phial, and he drinks with no issues. He has hardly finished with the first when Vivienne gives him the second. So it goes until he has downed no fewer than five—and that is before the extensive series of healing spells she performs.

Dorian watches with a mixture of amazement and horror. "You're doing _that_ much?"

"Given the way he hit the ground, it's safe to assume he fractured his skull in addition to being concussed," Vivienne explains. "He also dislocated his shoulder. He's fortunate it's no worse than that. None of those things is a laughing matter, Dorian dear, and as we want him back on his feet as soon as possible…"

He grimaces. "I take your point." Once again, he can't help but wish they held healers in higher esteem back home, even as he watches Leas drift into a proper—if magically induced—sleep. "How long before he _is_ back on his feet?"

"A couple of days, and his ribs will still give him trouble for some weeks," Vivienne says. "If you go out with him into the Basin, keep an eye on him."

"You don't need to tell _me_ that," Dorian snaps, bristling. "Though his _infinitely bad luck_ will no doubt baffle _all_ our efforts to watch him. Bloody moron!"

Vivienne chuckles and downs a lyrium potion. The camp nurse comes over, and at her direction, she bandages some of Leas' remaining injuries, down to the worst of his bruises. "True, something does seem to have it out for him," she admits, "but that is no reason not to try. Come, darling. We've both done all we can for the time being."

For a long moment, Dorian hesitates, staring down at Leas' peaceful face with a mix of fury, worry, and the something more he can only rarely name. Then he sighs and stands. "As you say," he murmurs. "But if this happens again, I _swear_…" He trails off, shaking his head, and follows Vivienne back into the camp to speak with Bull, Blackwall, and Cole, and learn more about the hour's adventures.

* * *

In hindsight, Dorian muses as they stand before the miraculously alive Inquisitor Ameridan in the old temple, that little incident was probably the easiest of their adventures so far. They've been in worse places, but everything they've encountered here has all conspired to ensure the Frostback Basin is _not_ his favourite locale in Ferelden. He'll be glad to leave, he suspects.

Still, as he shivers and tries to pretend that his teeth aren't chattering, he can't help but stare at the old Inquisitor. _Alive_, somehow, and he doesn't look a day of his age—but more importantly, he's an elf. And a mage. And he wears the same _vallaslin_ as Leas. Looking at him, Dorian regrets not making a bet with Varric about this. He could have come away with a tidy sum, assuming he'd somehow predicted this accurately.

Looking at _Leas_, however, Dorian sees that it's not as funny as he thinks. The man has gone pale, and his eyes are bulging almost out of his head, glinting in the dark. He is utterly taken aback, in a way that Dorian has rarely seen from him. "Inquisitor," he murmurs.

Ameridan looks up at his successor—his descendant, even though it is admittedly a stretch, using that term. "Inquisitor," he says, and his voice is warm. "_An'daran atish'an._ I am glad Drakon's friendship with our people has remained strong."

_Friendship? What friendship? He—ah._ As soon as he connects the dots, Dorian's heart sinks. When he glances at Leas out of the corner of his eye, he can see that the man looks equally pained—more so, actually. _Oh, the poor sod. 800 years out of the loop._

Leas bows his head for a moment, and when he looks up and speaks, his voice is low and his words hesitant. "_Ir abelas, hahren,_" he says. "It has not. Drakon's son, Kordillus the Second, together with the Chantry, destroyed the Dales. They broke their promise to us." Hardly the first time he has spoken of the Exalted March of the Dales—but Dorian can't remember him ever sounding so _sorrowful_ about it before.

"Drakon's son…" Ameridan murmurs. After a moment, his face falls, the grief there a perfect mirror of Leas'—if different, perhaps, in a way. He bows his head. "How long?"

"There has not been an Inquisitor since you disappeared… 800 years ago," Leas says. His voice remains soft. For half a moment, Dorian considers grasping his hand, offering what little comfort he can, but he thinks better of it. This moment is not for him, it is for the two _elven_ Inquisitors.

"Drakon was my oldest friend," Ameridan says. He now looks and sounds utterly confused—also more than understandable. "He would have sent someone to look for me."

The infamously expansionistic Kordillus Drakon, a friend of an elven Inquisitor. The mind boggles. "I'm afraid Drakon was a little busy with the darkspawn pouring down from the Anderfels," Dorian says. The words come too lightly off his tongue, too flippantly, but neither elf offers any chastisement. Still, perhaps it would be better to remain silent for the duration of this conversation. How can he comprehend what this means to Leas, to learn that the first Inquisitor was not a human but an elf—and that this very fact, the Chantry erased?

"I see," Ameridan says. Then he shifts the subject. "Telana escaped the battle. Did she… do the records say what became of her?"

Ah, sorrow upon sorrow. Dorian cringes again, now thoroughly distracted from the cold. "She returned to the island. From what we can tell, she… died trying to reach you through dreams. I'm sorry," Leas says, and he does not mention that Telana was never in the records at all. That might be for the best, given the anguish that crosses Ameridan's face as soon as the words leave Leas' mouth.

"I asked her not to," he says, miserable[RG1] in the way only one thrown forward eight hundred years beyond home and kin and friends into a dreadful future can be. "She was a good hunter and the love of my life, but she never…" He sighs. "I never wanted this job. Hunting demons was so much simpler than politics. But Drakon told me I was needed… as I suspect you were needed."

"Inquisitor," Leas says, "you said you were a friend of Drakon? Did you… stand between our people and the humans?"

Ameridan nods. "I did. The Second Blight was beginning. The elves of Halamshiral wished to stay out of it. They feared Drakon was no better than the Imperium. I wanted them to help—I feared that if we stood aside, we would lose everything we had gained. So I found common ground between our nations even as Orlais expanded." He sighs, regret in every line of his face. "It seems I did not do enough."

A negotiator, then, in addition to being a dragon hunter. A seeker of peace. _That_ sounds familiar. "I am trying to do the same… _hahren_," Leas tells him, and his voice trembles. "I am trying to find peace, to make common ground between our peoples. I tried to unite us in the face of a major threat. I would have an end to our people's suffering, and friendship between us and the human nations again if it were… if it were possible." His voice cracks in his final words, but Dorian again refrains from taking his hand. This is not a moment he can intrude on.

Ameridan, however, looks interested, perhaps even pleased. "And you bear the same _vallaslin_ as I, and you are a mage as well," he says.

Leas nods. "A-And a dreamer. Much like Telana."

"Then I have found a successor in many more respects than I could have dreamed," Ameridan says, smiling. Here, Dorian notices that his staff seems to be the only thing holding the dragon above him in place. Some of the pieces fit themselves together in his mind. "How has the job treated you, my friend?"

Leas shudders, and Dorian's heart clenches when he sees a tear trickling down his face. "It hasn't been all bad," he says, and despite his distress, Dorian knows he speaks the truth. "Actually, I've rather enjoyed being Inquisitor."

"I am glad to hear it," Ameridan says, "and sorry to burden you with my unfinished business." From there, he explains how he trapped the dragon, and how it is now breaking free, and that with the bindings gone, he will soon join his Telana in death. He tosses some contraption or other to Leas, and Leas takes it with trembling hands.

"Fight well, Inquisitor. I am honoured to have met you," he says, with a distinct note of finality.

A pause, then Leas almost whispers, "_D-Dar'eth shiral, hahren._" And with that, Ameridan's body dissolves into dust, quietly, with no pain or ceremony. There one second, gone the next. There is something wrenching in the solemnity of it, and his chest feels a little tighter than usual as they head back to the ground. Next to him, Leas is shuddering, fighting back tears.

They head back out into the night, and Dorian puts his hand on Leas' shoulder blade. "_Amatus_…" he murmurs.

Leas offers him a weak smile but shakes his head. "Not yet," he says. "We need to deal with the dragon and recapture Ameridan's memories. No time to lose."

Dorian hesitates a moment, but then he nods. It's probably better if this waits, anyway—it might give Leas time to process things. "Lead on," he says, and Leas manages a stronger smile. So saying, they head off towards the old Tevinter ruin.

* * *

_"We have a plan. Haron and Orinna will lead the Avvar elsewhere, so Telana and I can deal with the dragon,_" says the Ameridan of eight hundred years ago. Dorian is torn between paying attention to his words, wondering just _how_ this contraption of his works and whether any spirits have kept his memory preserved, and eyeing Leas, who is shaking his marked hand rather more vigorously than usual. When Leas lowers that hand at last, however, he focuses on Ameridan's words, in particular on how he had accepted his possible sacrifice to save Orlais.

After he has gone silent, Dorian shakes his head. "He saved all of Orlais from the Avvar, and no one ever knew." The nicer possibility, he knows. It is more likely, however, that someone knew, but Ameridan being an elf was _unacceptable_, even _heresy_, so they wrote it all out. A common practice, and one that starts a fire in his blood.

"Heroism shouldn't be about fame. It's about doing what's needed, no matter the cost," Blackwall says. No surprise that the great lummox misses the implications of this, though it could be he's better off that way. There is a certain innocence in not realising that Ameridan was not so much forgotten as _written out_.

And it is one that Leas strips him of immediately. "Yes, but we _should_ remember him," he says. His voice is shaking, but forceful. "It seems as if the Chantry not only expunged Telana but rewrote Ameridan to be more appealing to their anti-elven tastes!" Blackwall considers, then seems to concede the point with a nod. They leave, and Leas' steps are quicker than usual, his shoulders squared and hunched. When he looks at him, Dorian feels a chill unrelated to the cold.

_Ameridan's successor… in how many respects? Will he fall against the dragon? Or will the Chantry turn him into a human after he has gone, despite everything he has done for them?_ The very idea enrages him. _If they do, they deserve nothing of what he did. Ungrateful little shits. And perhaps, if they do, it will become clear once and for all that the Chantry is beyond redemption._ For a moment, he considers asking Leas, but he thinks better of it. That conversation can wait until later.

Still, if the fear of how history will remember Leas is following him like a stinking miasma as they proceed through the Basin, he can only imagine how Leas himself must be feeling.

* * *

On the beach, after several hours of walking, when Dorian's legs are aching as they haven't in months, Leas recaptures one of the last memories. "_I dislike being so far from home,_" Ameridan's voice says. Dorian all but throws himself on the ground as he speaks, not caring that the respite will be brief. "_Halamshiral needs me. The darkspawn have grown stronger. Some of my brothers would let those creatures destroy Orlais. They think Drakon no better than the Imperium. But if we do not stand with the humans against the darkspawn, we might lose everything we have gained._" He says a little more, makes a promise of defeating the dragon then standing with Drakon against the darkspawn. But Dorian pays little attention to these words in the face of what he said before—and of history.

"If the elves had helped Orlais during the Second Blight," he says, "Orlais might not have turned on them later." The words seem clumsy even to him, an attempt to cast blame where there is none and simplify a complicated matter, and he looks to Leas for confirmation or correction.

Leas, who has seemed lost in thought ever since they found the memory of Ameridan offering thanks to both Ghilan'nain and Andraste, shakes his head. His expression is rueful. "It's not that simple, I'm afraid," he says. The correction is gentle, understanding, as if he does not blame Dorian for his ignorance. "Orlais was already expanding, pushing against our borders, sending templars and missionaries, spreading false rumours about us when we resisted. I would have had our people fight as well—I know the Blight, and to ignore it is a travesty, whether it be taking place in Orlais or Rivain. But they might have found some excuse, regardless." That is true—has not the Imperium done much the same, found any convenient excuse it needed to conquer and oppress? Dorian nods, but Leas continues to speak. He muses, "I still find it hard to believe Ameridan was friends with the man who destroyed so many and so much in the name of Andraste. Perhaps he was a different person before Ameridan disappeared. I do not know." He shrugs.

Blackwall stares off into the distance, expression thoughtful and melancholic. "The Jaws of Hakkon failed to destroy the lowlands, but their dragon _did_ lead to the end of the elves," he says.

Leas shakes his head again, but this time, he also chuckles. "It wasn't the end of us. We may not have a nation, but we're still here, still proud and strong. But… yes, that is another wrong to right. Amazing how one thing out of place…" That it is; the mere concept of what could have changed in Tevinter alone had _one_ thing been different or absent would provide food for thought for days. But now is not the time for such contemplations.

"Come," Leas says, seeming to rouse himself. "Let's head back to the outpost. I need to speak with the professor." Dorian stands with a small sigh, and they head back along the beach. He knows he should spare more consideration for the elves and for Leas himself, but for now, he can't help but wonder how far they'll need to walk next time.

* * *

"_You are a dreamer, and this dragon the Avvar have tamed carries a demon inside it,_" Ameridan's voice says in the ruined hut on the island, above the skeleton of his lover. "_I can see how its presence hurts you._" He says more, but Dorian does not pay as much attention to the rest as he does to those words. A high dragon, given malice and magic enough to lay waste to much of Orlais… the spirit or demon within it must be almost incomprehensibly powerful. Perhaps as much as the Nightmare, back in the Fade?

After the memory has ended, they all glance at each other, then Leas looks away, seeming thoughtful again. "Yes," Dorian says, and he forgets himself, forgets a great deal, as he does so. "A dreamer like Telana would have been sensitive to demons." Blackwall glances at him and raises an eyebrow. "This spirit of Hakkon would have caused her a—"

Then he remembers, and it hits him, and the blood drains from his face. "—Great… deal… of pain. _Kaffas!_"

Blackwall shifts his gaze to Leas. "Just how much pain are we _talking_ about?" he asks.

Leas shrugs. Perverse though it may be, his good mood seems to be returning. "Likely enough to knock me on my arse, I guess," he says, and Dorian shudders. "But I've got used to being in pain while near demons, and I can't imagine this will be any worse than the Fade. _That_ was excruciating. So, all things considered, I don't think there's any need to worry." As if to emphasise his point, he smiles, and it is genuine, but it does nothing for Dorian.

"I wish I had your confidence, _amatus_," he murmurs.

Leas' smile only widens, and he steps over to him and pats him on the shoulder. "It'll be fine," he soothes. "We've done worse than this."

Dorian concedes with a grudging sigh, and with that, they head back to the boat. As they clamber in and row back to the mainland, his blood remains cool in his veins. He wishes he had a word or phrase to put to the pain Leas will experience that is more specific than _a great deal of_.

* * *

The next night, as they near the ice floes atop Cloudcap Lake, passing around the wall of ice containing the fisherman's hut, Leas' steps slow, and he digs his staff deeper into the ground. For a moment, he pauses, bowing his head and hunching his shoulders, and then he shakes himself, and they continue on.

To one not in the know, it would seem like nothing. But Dorian has been hypervigilant for any signs of a growing pain in Leas since they left the island, and the sight sends a chill down his spine unrelated to the coldness of the night. "Is that—are we getting closer?" he asks, and his voice trembles more than he cares to admit.

Leas nods. "I feel it, yes. It's still far off, but it's causing me a great throbbing pain already. This must be a spirit of incredible power… perhaps worthy of being called a god, for all I know. But the more powerful it is, and the closer I get, the more pain there is for me. _Y jushivanan_. The pain will not stop me." He rolls his shoulders and heads forward, while Dorian, Blackwall, and Varric all share a nervous look.

"Inquisitor," Blackwall calls. "Maybe you should take us to where the dragon is and then sit this one out? We can handle it."

Leas, to Dorian's complete lack of surprise, immediately shakes his head. "I appreciate the offer, Blackwall, but no. _Jushivanan._ I will do my duty. And I won't let you take any risks on my behalf. We kill that dragon together, and I will deal with the pain as best I can."

"_Amatus_—" Dorian protests.

Before he can say another word, Leas turns back and offers him a small, reassuring smile. In the same moment, his mark flares up, angry sparks flying out of his hand, and though Leas winces—while the others stare—he seems unperturbed. Never mind that this is not the first time it has flared up like this, never mind how it seems to pulse larger than usual, never mind how it seemed to cause him more pain than usual when he was closing the rifts earlier. "Don't worry," he says, as if all the things he's ever survived make him invulnerable, give them no cause for concern. "I can handle it." Then he turns back around and walks off, and Dorian knows he will brook no more argument. The ice creeps into his heart.

As they go on, with both Leas and the roars of the dragon guiding them, Leas' steps continue to slow, and he digs his staff ever further into the ground. The hunch of his shoulders alone is indication enough that he is in terrible pain already, but he says nothing, does not deviate from his course. Fear stings Dorian and warms his blood to a sickly heat, but for want of any solution, he remains silent and continues to follow, as do the others. The faster they kill the dragon, the sooner Leas' pain will be over. Right?

Finally, they make their way onto the last ice floe before the dragon, which hovers above them on a cliff nearby, glaring down at them with fully demonic malice. In the same moment that Dorian prepares to cast a barrier, Leas cries out and collapses to his knees.

"_Amatus!_"

At once, Dorian rushes up to Leas and kneels next to him. He slings an arm around his waist and Leas' arm around his shoulder and stares worriedly into his face. In the dark, the man is dreadfully pale, and his face is twisted with agony, to the point where his eyes are wet. He gasps for breath, and shudders and unnatural twitches wrack his body, and his mark flares up again in protest. All at once, Dorian recalls the first time he saw the Anchor sparking when it shouldn't, in Leas' quarters back at Skyhold. That was dreadful, and this looks to be no better.

Leas' eyes bore into his. "Help me up," he hisses. "_Jushivanan!_ I feel like I've just been bisected, but I will _not_ sit on the sidelines! Dorian, _sathan, ara lath,_ help me up!"

Dorian hesitates.

"I don't like this either," Blackwall says after a long moment, "but we're going to need his power to kill that dragon faster. It looks like a tough bastard from here, even by dragon standards. Get him on his feet, Dorian."

As much as Dorian wants to disagree with Blackwall on general principle, and as much as he'd prefer to wrap Leas in cotton and tell him to go somewhere where he isn't in total agony—or any agony at all—he ultimately knows that the man is right. Such cold logic is irrefutable. "_Festis bei umo canavarum,_" he mutters, only half-joking, and Leas lets out a weak chuckle. At Leas' nod, Dorian pulls him carefully to his feet.

Once he is steady, Leas rests his staff on the ground again and pulls away. "_'Ma serannas,_" he says, the words coming out from between gritted teeth. In the dark, Dorian sees a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as he returns his gaze to the others. "Come on. This is as bad as the Fade. Let's go kill that dragon before I become convinced I'm being torn to pieces."

Blackwall pulls his sword out of its sheath and grips his shield tightly, and Varric holds Bianca aloft. Dorian, meanwhile, tightens his hold on his staff and tries not to let the worry clutch at his heart, and they head up the nearby ramp and onto the frozen flat to face the Avvar god at last.

* * *

Much later, after everything has come to an end (a triumph, as always), Dorian drags himself to his feet back in the basin floor camp. He ignores the angry protesting of his still aching legs, tries to push the thought of the return journey to Skyhold out of his mind, and heads through the camp to Leas' tent. A few others still linger, and Dorian waits until they've turned their backs before he lifts the flap and steps inside. Irrational, perhaps, but old habits die hard.

Inside, he finds Leas scribbling on a sheet of parchment, his quill flying across it as fast as a quill can fly. "Just give me a moment," he murmurs, and Dorian settles down next to him and brushes a quick kiss against his temples. It is an easy affection, casual, one that he has not known before, but it seems _right_ to try it now. Judging from the blush that rises to Leas' cheeks and the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth, the man appreciates his efforts.

Shortly after, Leas lays aside his quill, puts the lid back on his inkpot, dries the ink with a simple spell, and shuffles the sheets of parchment into a neat pile. Then he sits up and leans his head against Dorian's shoulder. "Recording everything we found, _amatus_?"

Leas nods. "I've still got a lot to do. There were things I should have done earlier but couldn't, because of my head…" A vague smile crosses his face. "And the last few days have provided a veritable trove. I need to write it all out, show it to Kenric, then make copies for the Chantry and my people. And I need to gird myself for the inevitable hue and cry when this gets out."

Dorian wraps an arm around his waist. "A political maelstrom even by my people's standards," he says. "Will you need any help?"

"I'll let you know, but I should be fine handling this on my own. To be frank, _I'll_ be the one raising the hue and cry. If the priestesses and the nobles want to overreact… oh, I'll hold their hands through it, as ever. But _I_ can hardly be blamed for their reactions." There's an edge to these words, sharper than is typical for him, and Dorian pulls back for a moment to observe Leas. The man seems exhausted, and it could well be the lingering effects of his concussion, but…

"Are you angry? About what we discovered, I mean?"

Leas looks up at him for a moment then shifts his gaze away. "No. I'm not even surprised. Just saddened and disappointed. Another crime to add to the Chantry's very long list, another injustice to correct. And when this gets out, no one will comfort me or any of us about it. Instead, I must be the one to explain to the priestesses and nobles why this was wrong. I'll do it, of course. I always do. But it… it does get wearying, Dorian. Sometimes."

Dorian tightens his grip on Leas and presses another, firmer kiss to his temple. "For what little it's worth, I'm sorry you have to deal with this. All very well to correct an injustice, if you can, but it ought not to have happened in the first place."

"No, of course not," Leas says. "But it has. Luckily, the new Divine will be of a mind with me. I _know_ she'll correct things. So that helps. I simply…" He sighs and runs a hand over his forehead and through his hair. Even looking at his arm, Dorian can tell that his muscles are tense. "Something about all this has me on edge. I don't know what. It's making it harder for me to… process things. Maybe I'm just tired, but…" He trails off and looks away.

Dorian considers for a moment, then he remembers all the parallels he had noticed between Ameridan and Leas, which he's sure Leas himself has not missed. "Could it be because Ameridan was like you?" he asks. When Leas looks blankly at him, he clarifies. "You saw it. He worshipped the elven gods and the Maker. He was a mage. He had the same _vallaslin_. And more than any of that, he sought peace and solidarity between our two peoples. He himself said you seemed like a successor in many more ways than he could have dreamed."

A hint of realisation comes into Leas' face, and he nods. "Yes, that's right. I remember now. He was more like me than I would ever have thought. And I finished what he began." There is a pause, and Leas' shoulders sag. "I guess that is what worries me. Where do the parallels end? Am I going to suffer the same fate in history as him—turned into something I'm not or forgotten entirely because I'm politically inconvenient and a lesser being?" Bitter sarcasm laces his words. "As much as Leliana is trying to change things, it may not stick. What happens if the next Divine is not as forward-thinking as her? Will I be expunged, or turned into a human? Or will they remember my fight against Corypheus, but not what I did for the elves? Will they even remember you?"

Despite Leas' serious tone and the troubled expression on his face, Dorian can't help but laugh. "No offence, but I suspect you've got more chance of being remembered as you are than I do," he says, and Leas nods. "Minrathous will fall before the southern Chantry deigns to include a Tevinter in their histories in any capacity other than scaring children and providing a convenient lesson on the dangers of magic and the Imperium's corruption. They can't expunge _you_, not entirely. But I fear my fate will be like Telana's."

Leas scowls. "Undeservedly so. You've done so much for us, and I'm not saying that because I'm biased. Another thing to remind Leliana of, though you'll pardon me if I'm more worried about Ameridan. And myself."

"It's understandable," Dorian tells him at once. "If they _dare_ to rewrite you, then the ungrateful bastards deserve nothing of what you've done for them."

"I'm not sure I believe that," Leas says, and Dorian wants to object, but at the same time, he's not surprised. Of course the poor naïf would keep _trying_ for the Chantry, no matter what they do to him. A moment later, Leas looks up at him. "What about in Tevinter? What will _your_ historians say?"

Dorian thinks it over, but it doesn't take him long to answer. "Unfortunately, our historians are also well-accustomed to rewriting history to suit our needs. It's a regular occurrence. They won't remember _us_, certainly. If things go badly for me if… when I return home… I'll be held up as a cautionary tale, at best. You, they'll remember only for Corypheus. All your talk about elven rights might be seen as too inspirational for the slaves. That would be suppressed. That being said, they _might_ remember all your fighting with the Chantry, if only because it proves the southern Chantry is corrupt and unworthy."

Leas chuckles weakly and rolls his eyes. "Conveniently ignoring that I never said a word in support of the Imperial Chantry."

"We're very good at conveniently ignoring things, Leas, believe me," Dorian says, grimacing. "If we can overlook the state of Minrathous, if we can believe that we can beat the Qunari, then picking and choosing which parts of you we want to remember isn't exactly beyond us. But we could say much the same of the southern Chantry."

Leas makes a small noise of agreement and shakes his head. "A shame. My people possess only fragments, but we preserve them as they are, even if we make mistakes. The Chantry has so much more than that, but its members ignore what doesn't suit them. I suspect that's something else I need to discuss with the scholars. Historiography—from a _Dalish_ perspective—and why it trumps current Chantry methods."

"Hah! Now that would be quite the argument, wouldn't it? All those Chantry scholars forced to see that the 'unwashed Dalish savages' are, at least in some respects, _better_ historians. Truly, their heads would explode—assuming you ever _got_ them to see it."

"I've pulled off greater miracles," Leas says with a smile. Some tension appears to be easing from his face, from his shoulders. "And I must try, anyway. At least for my _own_ sake as much as for my people's. There's not much else I can do about it, but you know I don't want to be anything other than what I am. You know what that's made me do. The concept of going down in _history_ as something other than what I am…" He shudders and buries his face in Dorian's shoulder. Dorian strokes his hair gently, heart sinking.

"I wish I could offer you some reassurance, _amatus_," he murmurs. "You've got enough to worry about as it is without this."

"I know. But thank you." Another pause follows, and eventually, Leas looks up at him with eyes gone wide and puppy-like. "This is enough for the moment, I think. It's been a very long couple of weeks. The rest, we can worry about later."

"As you say. Maker knows I could use some rest." He pulls away from Leas and strips down without further preamble. Behind him, he can hear Leas doing the same. Once they've finished undressing, they slide under the covers of Leas' cot together, and Dorian wraps firm arms around Leas' waist and chest.

Leas winces. "Not too tight. Mind the ribs."

He loosens his grip at once. "How are they?"

In the dark, Dorian can see Leas bringing his hand up to rub at them. "Getting better, but still sore. Can't breathe too deeply yet. Ahh…" He exhales. "Getting whacked off two cliffs by a Hakkonite bruiser. But not getting my heart crushed in the process. Only _I_ would experience such a thing."

"And being in screaming agony while fighting that dragon," Dorian reminds him.

Leas groans and says, "The less I think about that, the better. I'm surprised I didn't pass out." He twists around to catch his gaze and adds, with a smile, "I'm glad you were there to help. I know you're not a healer, but the support was nice."

"You're welcome, but I would _appreciate_ it if you tried to avoid getting into these situations so often," Dorian says. The words are futile, he knows, but just as Leas has to convince the Chantry they have done wrong and can do better, so _he_ has to persuade him to stop risking himself like this.

Leas lets out another faint chuckle. "Hey, neither of those things were my choice. I'm telling you, I'm both cursed and blessed. Or something's looking out for me and putting me through hell at the same time. It's a strange dichotomy."

"_Strange_ is not the word I would use," Dorian tells him, holding Leas a little tighter. "_Infuriating_, maybe. By the time you're through with me, I swear I'll look like an old man."

That gets a laugh, though the sound fades quickly, and Leas winces in pain. "And I believe you said after we finished Corypheus that we both know I'm not likely to be through with you any time soon," he reminds him, teasing. "You'll be fine. It's been long enough, but I don't think you've aged at all."

Dorian chuckles. "Such a relief," he says, pressing kisses to Leas' neck and ear. "I suppose I could say the same of you. Though perhaps those circles under your eyes look worse than normal."

"Like I said, it's been a long few weeks," Leas says. "And it will be a long trip back to Skyhold, as well. Perhaps we might get some sleep, so we don't both end up with the dreaded shadows?"

He laughs again. "And you call _me_ an egotist," he teases. But after everything that's happened, with Ameridan, the dragon, the Hakkonites, and so much more besides, he's all too happy to comply. They settle down while a cool wind whistles against the tent, and despite the noise, he is asleep within the next half hour.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review if you did. The first section was based on something that happened in my game—Leas got whacked square in the chest and off two cliffs. He actually didn't take any damage due to his guard and barrier, but it was so amusing I felt I had to include it.

**Translations**

_"Y jushivanan."_: "But I will do my duty."

_"Sathan, ara lath!"_: "Please, my love!"

All translations taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.


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